


June birds

by epeeblade



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, post-series finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeeblade/pseuds/epeeblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first postcard came bundled with the rest of the mail, beneath some bills and above the Land’s End catalog that they would just not stop sending her. She nearly tossed it, but something stopped her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	June birds

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lapillus for quickly looking this over for me!

The first postcard came bundled with the rest of the mail, beneath some bills and above the Land’s End catalog that they would just not stop sending her. She nearly tossed it, but something stopped her. The card itself was nothing special, made of cheap cardstock and sold at dozens of tourist shops. 

It was the ink. Rich and black, with bold strokes declaring her name in a handwriting she didn’t recognize. Instead of a message, the sender had sketched out the image of a bird. June stared at it for a moment, wondering why anyone would send her a drawing of a pelican.

She couldn’t explain why, but she tucked the card away in one of the many hidey holes in her bedroom, next to some checks that weren’t entirely legal tender, but still held Byron’s beloved signature.

“Mozzie, what’s the symbolism behind the pelican?” She’d asked him during the Irish wake they’d held for Neal, and he was already deep into his cups, sitting there regarding the dark amber liquid of the whiskey. 

It was time for a change of subject after all, and she really wanted to know. 

“Ah, the pelican.” He set down his glass and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Any expert in medieval iconography knows this - the pelican is a powerful symbol in Christianity because she supposedly feeds her young with her own blood.”

June blinked. “I see?”

“Of course, that translates these days to being a symbol of a loving and caring parent. The self-sacrifice of a mother, if you will.”

She let him go on for a few minutes, her mind awhirl. What did it mean?

***

The second post card came from London, of a slightly heavier weight card stock. It was marked with that same luscious ink, thick and rich, just the thing an artist would use. The handwriting didn’t even match the previous card at all. However, there was another image of a bird sketched out where a message should go. 

The bird was a phoenix. Even June could hash that out without talking to Mozzie first. 

When she saw it, June hid the card quickly, her heart pounding in her chest. The message was so simple. Had the first card just been a warning? A precursor for the message that was to come?  
The drawing could mean only one thing. Neal had to be alive. 

“You said you saw the body?” She hated to put this question to Mozzie, but she had to know. Neal had been surprisingly cremated before she’d even arrived at the hospital. That had struck her as suspicious then, but she’d been in no position to say anything. 

He threw her a look of such sympathy that she felt bad for keeping the cards from him. “I don’t think I would have believed it if I hadn’t.”

No. He wouldn’t, would he. 

***

She laughed when she flipped over the third card - a generic image of the Colosseum on the photo side - to see a sketch of an empty bird cage, a few feathers drifting off in the wind.

The handwriting never matched, but the ink did. She wondered if that was a mistake or deliberate? Could he not help himself to the richness of an artist’s pen and ink, even in these tiny works of art?

***

Every month the cards came, never from the same location twice. She imagined him traveling, spending a few pennies on whatever tourist trap he could find before slipping the cards into the mail. Of course, he might just have a large stock of postcards saved up. The postmarks rarely matched the country they were supposedly bought from.

Some made her laugh - like the cartoon swirl of Tweetie Bird - while others caused her to bite her lip to keep the tears from falling. The one that caused her heart to drop into her belly was the rendered version of her own home, with the corner smudged, as if he couldn’t help himself.

***

One year and a dozen cards later, Peter Burke came to visit her. He sat awkwardly in her living room - he always was more comfortable in Neal’s loft, and they’d had little to say to each other after the funeral. Rubbing his hands on his legs, he shifted in his seat, before opening his mouth to speak and then shutting it several times.

“Oh, Peter,” she said, not without sympathy. “You know, don’t you?”

He finally stilled. “Do you?”

“Birds need to be free, my dear.” 

She’d meant to show him the cards, she really did. But when she excused herself to get them, something stilled her hand. Neal had sent them to her for a reason, all of his emotions sketched for anyone to see. He’d trusted her and she couldn’t betray that trust.

When she returned to the sitting room, she had a wrapped toy for Peter’s son. She’d had it for a while, but before now could not bring herself to visit the Burkes. “Are you planning on looking for him?”

Peter took the gift and twirled the blue ribbon between his fingers. “It’s almost inevitable that I do.”

June carefully considered how to respond. “Peter,” she said finally, “One of the most important things about being a father is knowing when a chick needs to leave the nest.”

He smiled. “As long as said chick knows the nest will be there waiting for him. Ah, enough with the bird metaphors.” He bent to kiss her cheek before leaving.

It was nearly time for the mail to arrive. Perhaps she had another gift waiting for her.

end


End file.
